


Untitled Dusty Mehra/John Sheppard Posing-as-Master-and-Slave WIP

by trophic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trophic/pseuds/trophic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Stargate Atlantis Kinkmeme prompt: While visiting a matriarchal, male-enslaving society with Teldy's team, John is threatened by the locals until Dusty claims him as her own. They have to stay on the planet for a while, and Dusty has far too much fun "owning" her commanding officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled Dusty Mehra/John Sheppard Posing-as-Master-and-Slave WIP

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is an unfinished WIP. There is basically zero chance I will ever finish it, as I ran out of steam half a year ago. It ends right when it's finally getting to the good part. 
> 
> Please don't ask me to finish it. Believe me, I would love to, but my heart is not in it anymore, and I have tried but I can't.
> 
> Contains: sexual slavery (real and pretend), chains, gynarchic sexism, sexual harassment (female on male), and something that might be interpreted as cross-dressing. Apologies if I've forgotten anything.
> 
>  
> 
> Not just unbetaed, but unedited. Apologies for the roughness.

"You are welcome to visit Zamonia," the city gatekeeper says. "All except _him."_

She spits the masculine pronoun and John bristles, but it's not like he wasn't expecting something like this. He knows how the women of this place treat men. That's why he's here with Teldy's team rather than his own. 

"Now that's just not friendly," he can't help saying, but Teldy holds up one hand as she steps forward. Speaking for him, because in this place, men can't speak for themselves.

"He's with us," Teldy says, her hand sliding casually to the butt of her sidearm. "He's not going to make any trouble. I'll take personal responsibility for him."

The gatekeeper wrinkles her nose, like John's very presence offends her. "So he belongs to you, then?"

"Well, not exactly," Teldy says, but clearly that's the wrong answer, because the gatekeeper's eyes go speculative. 

"Are you saying he's unclaimed?" The gatekeeper's curiosity feels even more unpleasant than her previous disgust.

Teldy frowns. She's a straight shooter, which is something John's always appreciated, and she's not going to resort to the last-ditch part of their plan unless she has to. "Look," she says. "His personal relationship status doesn't matter. I said we'd keep him in line and we will." 

John remembers he's supposed to be playing meek. He gives the gatekeeper his best nonthreatening smile, but it doesn't work. At least, not the way he intended. 

She steps forward, right into his space. She's almost as tall as he is, and the muscles in her bare arms gleam in the afternoon sunlight as she reaches to grasp his chin. "Oh, it matters," she says, turning his face like she's examining a dog or a pony. "It's extremely relevant."

He reminds himself that these people possess a Genii nuclear device, a fact Porter confirmed just an hour ago. And somewhere in this town, they're holding Woolsey prisoner. He can't afford to start an incident. "Really not," he says, which is a hell of a lot less than what he wants to say.

"If you're not using him for your own pleasure," the gatekeeper says to Teldy, ignoring John's words completely, "I'm sure we can find someone who would be happy to. He's a bit old, but not entirely unappealing."

"Thanks, but no thanks," John says, returning her stare with one of his own. "I'm not in the market for a pimp."

"This is Zamonia," the gatekeeper says. "That's not your call, here."

John clenches his jaw. There are a lot of things he wants to say, all of them impolitic. But before he can put any of them into words, he hears a voice from behind him. Not Teldy. Dusty Mehra.

"Let him go," she says. She sounds bored, but the gatekeeper looks up, and her grip on John's chin loosens. John glances over at Teldy, who's looking at Mehra, which means neither of them are consulting him. Which is, damn it all, how they planned it, but he really didn't think they were all the way to Plan Z already. "He's not yours," Mehra says.

"Oh?" the gatekeeper says, chucking John under the chin before dropping her hand to his shoulder. "Are you claiming him as your own?"

Mehra steps forward into John's range of vision. She has one hand on her hip and her face is as bland as her voice. "Yeah," she says, "I am."

John grits his teeth. He may have given this part of the plan his okay, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. It's not just that he doesn't want to be seen as anyone's property. He has a hard time imagining anyone actually believing he belongs to Dusty Mehra. She has to be ten years younger than he is, and while he'll give her points for coolness under fire, she's not exactly physically imposing.

But the gatekeeper looks her up and down and then steps back, her hand falling from John's shoulder. "I acknowledge your claim," she says formally, and then adds, with an arched eyebrow, "but I'll admit I'm surprised you let him walk around like this, as free as a woman."

Mehra's cheek twitches. "I'm not really all that worried about keeping him under control," she says, completely deadpan, and the next thing John knows, her leg is taking his feet out from under him. He crashes to his knees, and before he can even say _what the fuck_ , Mehra has an arm around his neck in a chokehold. "He knows better," she says.

"Hey!" John starts to say, because this was decidedly _not_ part of their plan, but he's cut off by the arm around his neck. 

"He's a little mouthy," Mehra says, "but I can handle him."

Crap. When he told them he'd go along with this, he really should have laid down some ground rules. John can't help fighting Mehra's grip, just a little, but she just tightens her arm, pulling his head closer to hers and coming damn close to cutting off his air. "Sorry, sir," she breathes into his ear, but she doesn't sound real sorry.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Teldy says, and John can hear the underlying steel in her voice. "I think you've made your point."

Mehra eases up on her headlock but keeps her arm around his neck as the gatekeeper looks at Teldy, obviously amused. "All right," she says. "You may bring him into the city as long as he wears a chain while he's here." 

"With all due respect, ma'am," Teldy says, "that's not going to be necessary. We're not planning to stick around that long."

The gatekeeper is implacable. "He wears the chain or you don't pass these gates. Our home, our rules."

Teldy looks unhappy, her eyes finding John's. He knows what she's asking, but he's damned if he's going to sit this one out on the sidelines, no matter what plan they have to resort to. He cocks an eyebrow at her and watches her frown deepen.

"Fine," she says tightly, and Mehra releases John's neck and gives him a hand up. His knees are sore and his neck hurts and now that the adrenaline rush is fading, he's more than a little ticked at her. She didn't have to go that far to make her point. And she sure as hell didn't have to look like she was enjoying it.

"This way," The gatekeeper says, and they follow her. John clamps down on the urge to look at Mehra because he knows if he does, he'll scowl. But she seems totally oblivious, walking beside him and whistling something tuneless between her teeth.

They pass through the town gates. Calling it a city is mostly glorification -- the streets are paved with gravel and none of the buildings are more than three stories high. One of the soldiers posted just inside the gate joins them on the gatekeeper's command and leads them to what in an ordinary village would be the blacksmith's shop. Here it's a little different.

There are three women, only one of whom is working at the forge. The other two are idly leaning against a table. They straighten when John enters the room.

"These strangers need a chain for their man," the gatekeeper announces. "He belongs to the dark-haired one."

The taller woman rakes John with a look, and then shifts her eyes to Mehra. "You really shouldn't let him walk around like that," she says. "I can sell you a very nice chain, something you can take with you when you leave."

"That's not gonna be necessary," Mehra says, but fortunately she doesn't feel the need to demonstrate her dominance again. "Just give us the basic loaner."

"Your funeral," the woman says with a shrug. She crosses the room to where there is a stack of wooden crates that make clanking noises when she shifts them. "This should do," she says, returning with a heavy brass-colored chain that's linked to two cuffs. "But you're gonna want his pants off."

John knows he's supposed to be keeping his mouth shut, but he can't help himself. "Sorry," he says. "I'm not that kind of a boy."

Mehra doesn't even give him a twitch of an eyebrow, but then, she's still working her too-cool-to-be-bothered expression. "Actually, I kinda prefer to keep his clothes on until I have him to myself."

The woman shrugs again. "If you want to cut them off him later, it's fine with me."

Mehra pulls her mouth to one side, staring at the chain and then at John's ankles, where they're apparently supposed to fit. "Yeah, I see the problem," she says. "You got something else he can wear?"

"It'll cost you," the woman says, and John's chin jerks up. The last thing he wants is to be walking around in some kind of slave costume. He tries to catch Mehra's eye, but she doesn't even glance his way.

"I'm not buying anything sight unseen," she says.

"Then you'll have to come look at what I got," the woman says.

Mehra finally looks over, but she ignores John completely and instead exchanges a look with Teldy, who -- damn her -- nods briskly. And then Mehra's following the woman toward a back room and there's not a damn thing John can do about it unless he wants to blow their cover.

Left behind with Teldy and Porter, John tries not to stare at the shackles they want to put on him. They look like something for a convict in a chain gang. He should probably be grateful there isn't a giant ball attached. 

Mehra spends long enough in the back room that Teldy starts to get restless and John's ready to send out a search party. When she finally comes back, she's carrying some kind of garment over her arm. It's black, anyway, and John's almost relieved until she shakes it out and he realizes it's a skirt.

Okay, not a skirt. A kilt. Not that there's much of a difference.

"Here," Mehra says, handing it to him. "Put this on and take your pants off."

It's utterly outrageous, but the alternative is to be locked into pants he can't take off. Well, of course he could always leave, but he's not doing that without Woolsey.

John wonders if Woolsey's wearing a chain and a skirt.

"And get a move on," Mehra says. "We don't have all day."

Damn it, she's taking her role way too seriously. John tamps down a sarcastic response and shakes the kilt out. It's a wrap-around affair, with ties on the inside and the outside as well. Right, well, this is the kind of mission where it's all or nothing, so it might as well be all.

He turns his back on the three Zamonians and undoes his fly, sliding his pants down onto his hips. He's not wearing his belt or holster, which makes things easier even if he already feels naked without them. 

He pulls the skirt around his waist, tying the inside ties and then the second set at his hip. Then he kicks off his boots and pulls his pants down.

Mehra is watching him blandly. "Shorts, too."

Crap. That's just gratuitous. John's damn sure he sees amusement in her eyes, and he wishes like hell he could disobey in front of the Zamonians. But if he does, he'll blow what cover they have, so he reaches under the kilt and, slowly enough to make the point with Mehra, pulls his boxers down before stepping out of both them and his pants.

He feels exposed as he straightens. The kilt's fabric is kind of soft and drapey, and it stops short of his knees. He can feel his junk swinging free, open to the air. A gust of wind would bare him to the world.

"That's better," the tall woman says, and John turns to find her much too close. "Here," she adds, crouching down. "Let me help with the chain."

John's not even close to ready, but he doesn't have a say in this, either. Mehra squats down and helps the Zamonian position the cuffs around his ankles. The Zamonian locks them with an ostentatiously large key, and then pockets it as she straightens.

Mehra holds her hand out. "I'll be needing that."

"Oh, no," the woman says. "I'll be happy to take them off when you leave."

Mehra scowls. "He's mine. I get to say what happens to him."

"Not in this city," the woman says. "Sorry. We've had too many problems with strangers."

For the first time, Mehra looks truly pissed. John's not entirely sure she's not going to put the Zamonian in a headlock. But before she can do anything rash, Teldy steps up.

"Do you need to go home, Sergeant?"

She's talking to Mehra, but her eyes go to John, cool and level, and he realizes she's asking him if he wants to leave. He doesn't dare give her anything the Zamonians can read, but he clenches his jaw and crouches down to start putting his boots on over the damn cuffs. He's been through worse, and he has a mission to complete. He's not chickening out now.

When he looks up, Mehra's eyes are on him, too, and whatever else she is, she seems to be capable of reading him. "Nah," she says. "I'm good."

"All right," Teldy says. "Let's finish up here."

Mehra completes her transaction without getting the key while Teldy goes to talk with the soldier the gatekeeper left guarding the door. John's a little distracted by Mehra's haggling and the weight of the chain between his ankles, so he only hears the end of Teldy's conversation.

"Fine," she says. "We'll arrange for rooms at the inn. But we need to request an audience at your leader's earliest convenience."

The soldier nods. "I will deliver the request. Now please follow me."

"Sorry girls," Teldy says. "It looks like we're going to be here awhile."

Porter looks worried. Mehra looks cranky. John takes one step and nearly falls over when the chain pulls him up short, halfway through his stride.

Yeah, it's going to be a great mission.

***

The inn is a sturdy, three-story building close to the center of town. There are no men inside, and John's starting to wonder where the hell they are. The only people he saw on the street were women.

Of course, if the men are all wearing chains like he is, it's no wonder they aren't frolicking in the street. After nearly tripping himself multiple times, John's developed an awkward, clanking shuffle, pushing one foot forward and then the next. He can't imagine living like this. He hopes to hell they're going to find Woolsey soon.

The innkeeper greets them with a smile until she sees John.

"It'll be extra for him," she says. "And we don't charge hourly rates. It's a full night, in advance, and you clean up after him."

"Don't worry," Mehra says. "He's house trained."

The innkeeper doesn't take that for a joke. "He'd better be," she says with a grimace, and proceeds to dicker with Teldy to arrange trade for their lodging. When she's satisfied with the terms, she gestures to them. "Follow me."

She leads the way to two rooms. "He's yours?" she asks Mehra, and when Mehra nods, she points to the first door. "This one's for you. Bathroom's down the hall. See that he stays away from the other guests." She looks John up and down. "This is an upright establishment. We don't approve of sharing."

John can't help making a face.

"That's not gonna be an issue," Mehra says. "I'm pretty possessive."

"It's a shame you had to bring him," the innkeeper says, "but I suppose we can't control our cycles. He looks sturdy, anyway. I hope he gets you a strong girl."

"Thanks, I think," Mehra says and John reminds himself that he's wearing shackles and even if he weren't, it would be a really bad idea to slug the person who just rented them their rooms.

"Meet back here in five minutes," Teldy says, and Mehra nods and says, "Five minutes," before pushing open the door the innkeeper indicated as hers.

The window shutters are closed, so John doesn't get a good look at the room until Mehra flings them open. John shuts the door behind him and turns back to find the room dominated by a large bed. The frame is made of heavy wood, with four tall posts at the corners. Attached to each post is a short metal chain and a cuff.

Mehra comes over to stand next to John, and they stare at the bed for a moment.

"That's fucked up," Mehra says.

"No shit," John says.

Mehra crosses her arms over her chest, still looking at the bed. "Hey, sorry about that back there," she says with a jerk of her chin in the direction of the window, presumably meaning what happened outside the gates. "Had to make it convincing or they'd never buy it."

John pauses, remembering his own qualms on that account. "Yeah, well, next time go a little easier on the chokehold, okay?"

"Figured you could handle it," Mehra says, and John doesn't know whether that's a compliment or not, but it's damn clever because if he denies it he looks like a wimp.

"I can handle it," John says. "I can handle walking around in a chain and a skirt. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Mehra gives him an assessing look. "It could be worse," she says, turning back toward the door.

"Yeah?" John says. He's still trying to figure out how she thinks. 

"Yeah," she says over her shoulder, crossing the room and opening the door. "You could have ugly knees."

Teldy's just coming out of her room with Porter in tow, and they all meet in the corridor.

"Well," Teldy says. "It's not home, but we're not planning to be here very long."

"It's fine," John says, ignoring Mehra's cocked eyebrow. "We need to discuss strategy."

"Let's do that in private," Teldy says, and ushers them into her room.

It's bigger than Mehra and John's room, and there are two beds with a notable absence of cuffs and chains. There are chairs, too, and John takes one, pulling it forward while the women sit on chairs or, in Mehra's case, the nearest bed.

"Okay, the first order of business is to find Woolsey," John says, turning to Porter. "Any luck with your scans?"

Porter shakes her head. "I'm still not reading his chip. Either they disabled it or removed it, or he's not here after all."

"Guess we're going to have to do this the hard way," John says. "It would help if we knew where the men are."

"I say direct negotiation is still our best bet," Teldy says. "If I claim him as mine --" she wrinkles her nose at the thought but goes on "-- they may just hand him over. Judging from their reaction to you, Colonel, they do seem to respect outsiders' claims."

"It's worth a shot," John says. "Just keep in mind, we can't bring in the big guns unless we can disable that nuke. And we don't know what these people are capable of."

"Right," Teldy says. "Well, we know they're capable of slavery, anyway. How 'bout we try to track their leader down?"

It's surprisingly hard to admit that's the best strategy, but maybe that has something to do with the fact that as soon as he leaves this room, John's effectively ceding leadership of the team. "No time like the present," he makes himself say. "Let's move out."

But none of them get up to go. Porter looks down and Mehra fiddles with her vest straps and even Teldy looks a little uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, sir," she says. "But I don't think we should take you with us."

Damn it, that's adding insult to injury. "Look, I can handle being a second-class citizen," he says. "I'm not going to blow our cover."

"It's not that," Teldy says. "It's a question of whether they'll talk to us if you're there. I don't want to risk it."

John looks over at Porter and Mehra, and he doesn't have to ask to see they agree with Teldy. He knows it's his call. He could insist on being there, and they'd be forced to go along with it. "Fine," he says. "But I'm not staying here. I'll see if I can get us some intel while you're off chatting with their leader."

"Take Sergeant Mehra," Teldy says, "and it's a plan."

John frowns, because really, the last person he wants to be spending quality time with is Mehra, but the logic is pretty unassailable. After all, he's already been established as Mehra's property.

"All right," he says. "But keep your radios on. I want check-ins every hour, and anytime things look even a little hinky."

"You got it, sir," Teldy says.

***

Heading out isn't a lot of fun with the chain hampering every step, but John follows the others down the stairs and into the inn common room. There are two other women there now, and they both give John openly curious (or possibly disgusted) stares. He ignores them and follows Teldy out onto the street.

Zamonia doesn't have anything resembling street signs, but the buildings look a little fancier toward the middle of town. Teldy signals that she's heading that way, and John gives her a tiny nod before turning to look a little more closely at the local environment. He knows the kind of place his looking for, and   
in a moment, he spots something that might be a pub over on the far side of the street. He catches Mehra's eye, nodding in that direction.

Mehra gives the awning a once-over and for once follows his lead. "Damn, I'm thirsty," she says, too loudly to be aiming it at John. "C'mon, I'm gonna see if they have anything to drink over there."

John keeps his head down and turns to follow her.

"Feel like I should have a leash," she says out of the side of her mouth.

John knows he's supposed to be playing the part, but he can't suppress an eyeroll. "I'm sure you'll get by without one, Sergeant," he says in a low voice, hoping he doesn't have to remind her about their goals, here.

"As long as you behave yourself," Mehra says, and picks up her pace, not bothering to wait for John's shuffling steps to catch up.

The door is still swinging behind her when John gets there, so he pushes through, only to find a dozen pairs of female eyes trained on him.

"What's _he_ doing here?" he hears one voice say.

Mehra half-turns, her blase expression firmly back in place. "Don't worry about him," she says. "He's mine."

"He doesn't belong here," a tall woman at the bar says. "If you must have him out, you should have the decency to take him down the street."

Mehra lifts her eyebrows. "Oh, yeah?" she says. "How far down the street?"

The bartender grimaces. "Four doors. Don't tell them I sent you."

"Got it," Mehra says, and then to John, "C'mon."

John follows her out the door, ready to trail her down the street. But Mehra actually waits for him and shoots him a questioning look when he catches up to her.

Well, at least she still has some notion of the chain of command. John appreciates being asked, even if there's really no chance he's going to turn his back on a potential lead. He gives her a short, quick nod, and she accepts it with a tightening of her mouth. "Let's go."

In the direction they came from, the street is wide and sunny. In the direction the bartender indicated, it narrows. John counts four doors down, to a two-story structure with all the shades drawn. Mehra, being Mehra, heads straight for it.

There's a faint thumping noise coming from somewhere above the door and it smells like some kind of burning herbs. John can only hope it's nothing intoxicating as Mehra knocks boldly.

After a few minutes, an older woman opens the door. She's dressed in gaudy, glittery robes, completely unlike the plain, utilitarian trousers and shirts of the Zamonians they've seen so far. And when she sees John, she doesn't sneer, but waves them inside.

"Well," she says, her eyes traveling up and down John's body, "he's a bit long in the tooth, but reasonably well-favored. How many rounds is he good for?"

Mehra's world-weary expression slips for just a moment. "What?"

"Foreigners." The woman rolls her eyes. "Listen, ducky, if you're bartering his services, I need to know what he's good for. A lot of men his age shoot once and they're done for the night."

Great. So that's what this place is for. John can't help crossing his arms over his chest and giving the woman his best glare.

"I'm not bartering," Mehra says, to John's relief. "Not yet. I wanna see what you got, first. Then we can talk trade."

"All right," the proprietor says. "You may have a tour. But if you want to sample any of the goods, he has to prove himself, first."

"Works for me," Mehra says. John, of course, doesn't get a say in the matter.

The proprietor pulls a cord on the wall, and moments later a young woman appears, dressed in gaudy robes like her superior. "Yes, ma'am?"

"This foreigner wants a tour. See that she doesn't take without sharing."

"I understand," the woman says, and turns to Mehra. "My name is Assanch. You are?"

"Dusty," Mehra says. "And this is John."

John would really prefer not to be on a first-name basis here, but it's not like he has a choice.

"Pleased to meet you," he can't keep himself from saying, and both the proprietor and Assanch flinch and then give him narrow-eyed stares.

"Don't worry," Mehra says, giving John a less-than-gentle cuff to the back of the head. "He's a joker, but I have him under control."

"That had better be true," the proprietor says, "or you will not be welcome in this establishment."

"Trust me," Mehra says, giving John a narrow-eyed stare of her own, and yeah, he gets it. If he can't control himself, they won't have a mission.

"Sorry," he mutters, lowering his eyes to the floor.

"Funny," Mehra says, and John keeps his gaze down with an effort, "I thought you said something, but I didn't hear it."

She sounds way too amused for anyone's good. John raises his chin and meets her eyes, and if there's a hint of sarcasm in his voice it's her own damn fault. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he says. "I'll behave."

"That's better," Mehra says, and damn it, yes, she's enjoying herself. "So," she says to Assanch, "how 'bout that tour?"

"As you wish," Assanch says, and leads the way through a hall and into a lavishly decorated salon. It's empty except for a bored-looking Zamonian lounging on a settee with a young man kneeling at her feet. He's wearing nothing but a skirt and a set of chains that connect his ankles and wrists, and he looks almost as bored as his mistress. They both look up when John enters, their gazes raking him. 

"I'm sorry," Assanch answers their silent query. "This one's not available yet. Maybe in a few minutes, if you're interested."

The Zamonian woman frowns. "I'd want to see him naked, first," she says, and Mehra makes a face.

"Sorry," she says. "I don't give away freebies." And the Zamonian woman sinks back into her settee, looking disgruntled.

"This is where swaps are arranged," Assanch says unnecessarily. "Don't worry. I'm sure we'll have some more boys along in a jiffy."

"There better be," the Zamonian says sullenly, and Assanch gestures for Mehra to follow her out of the room.

The scent of burnt herbs gets stronger as they climb a set of stairs. "We have private chambers," Assanch says, opening a door. The room inside is decorated in dark red, with a prominent bed. John's not exactly shocked to see chains attached to the bedposts, but it still makes him shudder.

"Nice enough," Mehra says with a shrug.

"If you prefer," Assanch says, "there's a communal room as well. Some women would rather not let their property out of their sight when they're sharing."

"I get that," Mehra says, as Assanch's hand reaches for another door handle. She pushes the door half-open, and John realizes that the thumping noise he'd heard earlier is coming from just inside. He can hear a gasping sound on top of it, now. Whoever is in there is going to town.

"Actually," Mehra says, "I don't really need to see any more rooms. I'm sure it's lovely, but I'm more interested in what kind of guy I can swap for."

So it's out of the frying pan and into the fire, then. John suppresses a wince, even though he knows, intellectually, that Mehra's just fishing for intel. He just wishes she didn't sound so comfortable with the idea of pimping him out.

Assanch lets the door swing closed again. "Well, there's the lovely young man downstairs, of course," she says.

"Sorry," Mehra says. "Too green for my taste. I like a guy who's been around the block a few times."

Assanch looks surprised. "Like him, then?" she says skeptically, pointing at John.

"Sure," Mehra says. "Or older, even. I like a guy who thinks he knows what he's doing." She smiles, showing all her teeth. "It's more fun to take him down."

Assanch flushes. "Oh," she says. "I see. Well, I'm not sure we have one that would suit you, then."

"No man over the age of forty?" Mehra asks.

"Not right now," Assanch says, "or, really, ever. You'd need to go to the other end of town for that sort of thing, only please don't tell the mistress I told you that."

"Where at the other end of town?" Mehra asks.

"There's a building with a red curtain over the door. Three streets over and near the city wall. They might have what you're looking for."

"Thank you," Mehra says, obviously pleased with herself. "I think we'll be going, now." And completely gratuitously, she grabs John by the shirt and yanks him after her. He nearly trips over his chain but manages to stay on his feet and not curse her out loud. He figures that's doing pretty damn well.

Assanch follows them down the stairs and through the salon, where three women are now in heated discussion while their (very young) men sit at their feet and glare at each other.

In moments they're back out on the street. John checks his watch, but surprisingly enough, they're still a few minutes short of the scheduled check-in time.

There are several women in the street, and John reminds himself not to meet their eyes. He does his best to look harmless. Just a boytoy out for a stroll with his mistress.

"Hey," one of the women says, stepping up to stand right in front of Mehra. "You're not from around here."

"That's right," Mehra says, her hands going to her hips. Her sidearm is in her holster, but she doesn't make a move for it, John sees with approval. The Zamonians, despite their nuke, don't appear to have firearms, but he's pretty sure they'll recognize one if Mehra drew and the last thing they need right now is an incident.

"Your man's not much," the woman says, looking Mehra up and down. She's several inches taller and noticeably broader in the shoulders. "But I guess he's all you can handle."

"Dream on," Mehra says. "You couldn't handle him if he were chained to a bed and roofied."

John has to bite his tongue to keep the "what the fuck" from escaping. If this is her idea of defending his honor, he'd be better off without it.

"I'd be happy to put that to a test," the Zamonian says, moving in. "You gonna stop me?"

Mehra puts herself between the Zamonian and John. "'Fraid so," she says. "I don't like to share."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be parading him around in broad daylight," the woman says, and reaches around Mehra for John's arm.

John's not an idiot and he's not slow, so he sidesteps her easily.

"Hate to disappoint you," he says, "but I'm taken." Even though it's an utter fabrication, it's surprisingly satisfying to say.

"We'll see about that," the Zamonian says, and takes a swing at Mehra.

John winces, but Mehra ducks easily and answers with a quick uppercut that sends the Zamonian reeling. Mehra goes after her, pressing her advantage, and for a moment John thinks it's going to be over as easily as that. But the Zamonian gets her feet under her and comes after Mehra with her fists flying.

John steps up, cursing the chain that's threatening to trip him, but before he can join the fight, the second woman grabs him by the elbow, yanking hard enough that he really does trip. He feels himself going down and hooks an arm around her to take her with him. 

They land hard in the gravel street and she rolls with him, punching and kicking and trying to get on top. He dodges her blows and tries to use his weight against her, but she's stronger than she looks. He gets an advantage for a moment and loses it, barely avoiding a knee to the crotch. Damn, she fights dirty, and he's always been a bit too chivalrous for his own good.

"Let him go," he hears Mehra's voice say, and he feels the woman on top of him jerk as Mehra pulls her into a headlock from behind. Mehra's previous opponent is lying groaning in the dust.

The Zamonian holding John tries to shake her head in Mehra's grip, but Mehra tightens her hold until she has to be cutting off blood flow.

"Seriously," Mehra says, "don't piss me off," and John uses the moment to jerk out from under them both and scramble to his feet.

"Thanks," he says, even though he's pretty sure he would have come out on top if he'd had a little more time.

Mehra nods, shoving the Zamonian into the dust. "C'mon, let's get out of here," she says.

John's okay with that plan. His hip is killing him where he landed on it, and the damn chain is driving him nuts. He shuffle-limps to Mehra's side, as she leans to dust off her pants. 

"I can take care of myself and I don't like to be insulted," she says to the Zamonian. "You can tell your friends that. Make things easier for everyone, next time." And with that, she turns and heads back in the direction of the inn.

She's grimacing a bit herself, and when they get to the door of the inn, John gets close enough to see that she's got a bleeding cut on her right cheek. He opens the door for her -- surely the Zamonian's can't fault him for courtesy -- and follows her inside.

The innkeeper glares at them. "And what have you been up to?"

"Nothing much," Mehra says. "Just showing a few people what's mine."

"You'd better keep that outside," the innkeeper says, and Mehra laughs.

"Yeah, don't worry. If they follow me in here, they'll regret it."

They're both slow on the stairs, and when they get to the room, John goes straight for his backpack and pulls out the first aid kit, taking out a couple of cold packs and activating them both before handing one to Mehra.

She presses it to her ribs with a grimace. "They don't pull their punches around here."

"Yeah, I noticed," John says, applying his own pack to his upper thigh. The skin is gritty and red beneath his skirt, but at least it's not broken. "You're gonna want something for that cheek."

Her hand lifts to her face and comes away bloody. "Damn."

"Here," he says, reaching into the first aid kit for an antiseptic wipe and some butterfly bandages. "Let me take care of it for you."

She makes a face but sits on the bed, and he sits next to her, wiping down the cut and then applying the bandages to close it neatly. She doesn't flinch as he works, even though he knows it has to sting.

"Should do it," John says, checking his work when he's done. "I don't think it'll leave a mark."

She lifts an eyebrow, a hint of a smile lifting her cheeks and pulling at the bandages. "No big deal," she says. "Scars add character, right?"

He finds himself smiling back because really, the last thing she needs is more character, but now that she's fought for his honor, he can't find it in him to be pissed at her anymore. "Thanks again for saving my ass out there," he says. "Damn chain got in the way."

"Yeah," she says. "Guess that's kind of the point, huh?"

He makes a face, but whatever else he was about to say is interrupted by his radio.

"Colonel Sheppard," Teldy's voice says in his ear. "Come in."

"Sheppard here," John says, "but you better can the rank for the duration, even on a secure channel."

"Copy that," Teldy says. "We're heading back for the inn. What's your status?"

"Already here," Sheppard says. 

"Great," Teldy says. "See you in ten."

He signs off and turns to see Mehra crouching over her pack, rooting through one of the pockets.

"They're on their way," he says.

"Figured," she says, straightening with a multi-tool in her hand. She flips it open to what looks like a file. "Here, put your feet up."

John frowns, looking from his chain to the file. "You can't take it off. They'll kind of notice."

"Not gonna take it off," she says. "Just weaken it a bit. Give you a fighting chance if you need it."

John's not about to argue with that. He lifts his legs and the heavy chain to the bed and lets her slide a small rag from her pack underneath one of the central links. "You can't make it obvious," he says.

She positions the file and pulls it against the metal with a sharp rasp. "Yeah, you worry too much."

She works with steady precision. The metal of the chain looks like brass or possibly merely bronze; in any case, it's softer than Mehra's hardened steel file, but the links are big and it's slow going. She's still working when there's a knock on the door.

"Put that away," John says sharply, sliding his feet and his chain off the bed, but when he opens the door, it's Teldy.

"Whoa," Teldy says, her eyes wide, and John realizes she's staring at the cuffs on the bed.

"All the luxuries of home," John says.

"That's fucked up," Teldy says. "You want to bunk with me and Porter?"

John glances at Mehra, who lifts an eyebrow at him, and for a moment he considers it. It wouldn't be putting Porter and Teldy out too much to ask them to share a bed, and if he sleeps here, he figures he's going to have to offer to take the floor. But it would risk blowing their cover, and that would be a hell of a waste. "We're fine," he says.

Mehra nods with what John can't help seeing as approval. "It's cool," she says. "No one's going to fuck with him. They'd have to get through me, first."

Her protectiveness feels pretty damn weird, but given their recent adventures, he can't really protest in good faith.

"Okay," Teldy says, and then her eyes narrow on Mehra's face. "What happened to you, Sergeant?"

Mehra straightens and folds her tool up. "Just a little run-in with some locals who took a shine to the colonel. They thought he was available. I set them straight."

"I see," Teldy says, frowning. "C'mon, let's talk in the other room."

Mehra nods and kneels to stow her tool in her pack. "Just a sec," she says, and pulls out something that looks like a tin of black grease. She opens it and gets some on her finger, then crouches at John’s feet to smear it on the bright part of the metal she just filed. In moments it's a lot less noticeable.

"Thanks." John can't help moving his feet, pulling the chain almost taut to see if he can feel what she's done.

"Don't put too much force on it," Mehra says, eyeing it critically. "One good yank should break it."

"Gotcha," John says, "thanks," and he follows Porter and Teldy to the other room.

"So," John says when Mehra has come in behind him and closed the door, "how'd you do?"

"Not much luck, sir. They said they'd never heard of him," Teldy says. "Or Atlantis."

John frowns. Of all the possibilities, this is the one he hadn't considered. "Did you believe them?"

"I don't know. It's kind of hard to buy, but I guess it's possible they could be that isolated. They're not real keen on strangers here."

"Yeah, we noticed," John says, sitting on the closest bed and putting his feet up. The shackles are less annoying that way.

"Porter did manage to triangulate the location of the nuke," Teldy goes on. "It's underground, somewhere below the leader's house. There were at least ten guards inside, though. And we don't even know if they know how high that thing can blow."

"The nuke is our secondary concern," John says. "We need to locate Woolsey before we make a move."

"Gonna be hard to ask around for him if they're claiming they've never seen him," Teldy says.

"Maybe," John says. "Or maybe we can turn that to our advantage. If they don't know what we're looking for, they can't play hardball."

Teldy looks skeptical. "We don't even know where they keep their men."

John leans back on his hands. "Actually, the sergeant and I may have a lead on that."

"Yeah?" Teldy says, looking from John to Mehra and then back again.

"Yeah," Mehra answers. "There's some kind of club over by the east wall. Supposedly caters to women who like older men."

Porter's nose wrinkles. "C'mon, Dusty. You really think they're holding him as some kind of sex slave?"

"We don't know _if_ they're holding him," John says. "But we're not ruling anything out."

Teldy frowns. "And you're okay walking into a place like that."

John lifts an eyebrow, trying to project more casualness than he can honestly lay claim to. "I'm sure Sergeant Mehra will protect my virtue."

But Mehra's looking at him with her mouth pulled sideways. "Permission to speak freely, sir."

"Granted," John says, a little surprised. Dusty Mehra's not exactly a stickler for regulations, especially when it comes to speaking her mind. "Might as well be for the duration of the mission."

"It could get ugly in there.," Mehra says. "You saw what it was like on the street."

John crosses his shackled ankles, rattling the chain. He can see the link she filed, but only because the grease is a little shiny. He figures a short walk in the dusty streets ought to take care of that. "I'm aware of that, Sergeant, but if there's a chance he's in there, we have to check it out. We'll be fine."

"Not really worried about myself," Mehra says.

"You planning on letting them have their wicked way with me?" John asks.

Mehra rolls her eyes. "Not any time this century."

"Then don't worry about me," John says. "I can handle it." 

Mehra doesn't look happy, but she presses her lips together and doesn't say anything more.

"Let's not make this any harder than it has to be. We go in, you give them your 'hard to please' routine and we see if they can produce Woolsey. If you have to swap me for him, do it. I can get out on my own. If I have to break the chain, I break the chain."

"I don't like it," Teldy says. "There's too many ways it could go wrong."

"That's what you said the last time," John says.

"I was right the last time."

"Yeah, and we were fine." John swings his feet to the floor. "Mehra, you're with me. Teldy and Porter, keep your radios on. We'll let you know if we need backup."

"Fine," Teldy says, "but we eat first. I don't want anyone falling down in the field from low blood sugar."

John glances at his watch to see that it's well past lunch, Atlantis time. "Right," he says. "We can probably get something downstairs."

_"We_ probably can," Mehra says with a glance at Porter and Teldy. "But I don't think they're going to want to serve you in the public room."

Damn it, this slave-thing is pretty inconvenient. "All right," John says. "Bring me whatever they've got."

***

It's dark when he and Mehra finally leave the inn, which means the lunch counts as supper. John follows her through streets that are lit by occasional torches. A few Zamonians are out, carrying brass lanterns. Mehra has her flashlight on, but since John's following four steps behind the circle of light it makes, he stumbles more than once.

He doesn't figure the red curtain will be hard to find, but it's lit so dimly they almost miss it. Fortunately Mehra doubles back on a side street and there it is. The house is modest even by Zamonian standards, but there's music playing somewhere inside. John stands back as Mehra raps on the door and then follows her in when it opens.

The woman who greets them is dressed like any Zamonian, and there's nothing gaudy on the walls of the narrow corridor that leads inside. She holds up a candelabra to John's face, but apparently whatever she sees is acceptable, because she says, "This way," and leads them through a door and then down a staircase. There's another door at the foot of the stairs, and she opens it to reveal a large, crowded room, lit by lanterns and candles. 

There are men here. Ten or fiifteen of them, most of them kneeling or sitting at the feet of a woman. Every man is shackled. Some have their wrists chained, too. They're all wearing skirts, and only a few have shirts on. As John watches, one of the women reaches down to run a hand down the side of her man's face possessively.

John has enough time to categorize the men -- mostly in their thirties, he judges, and all of them outwardly subservient -- before four or five of the women converge on him and Mehra.

John figures Mehra ought to be the center of their attention, with her swagger and the white bandage standing out starkly on her cheek, but they're all looking unabashedly at him.

"Oh, nice," the first one says. "We haven't had something this pretty walk in the door in ages."

"I saw him first," a second one says, but no one answers because someone else is saying, "Well, show us what he's got," and before John or Mehra can do or say anything, she's lifting up John's skirt.

"Whoa," one of the Zamonian's says, as John jerks backward and Mehra slaps their hands away.

"Hey!" she says. "Keep your damn hands to yourself. He's mine until I decide to share."

John finds himself at Mehra's side, his ears burning and his fists clenched. But the Zamonians are looking at Mehra now, and their expression is weirdly respectful.

"Wow," one says slowly. "I guess you know how to keep him in line."

"Was it a punishment," another asks, "or do you do that to all your men?"

Crap. They're talking about his circumcision. Which means they got a hell of an eyeful before he or Mehra could react. 

For a moment Mehra looks confused, and John realizes that she didn't see what the Zamonians saw. But apparently she has a good imagination, because her expression clears. "Nah," she says. "I just like him that way."

"He's still functional?" one of the Zamonians asks.

Mehra cocks a worldly eyebrow. "Hell, yeah."

"Is he good for more than one round?" another asks.

"At least two," Mehra says, damn her flippancy. "Three if you know what you're doing."

John tries not to react. He knows its all just a ploy, but it feels damn weird to have her talking about his prowess like he's some kind of gigolo. 

"Tatzi!" one of them calls, and a man comes over to kneel at her feet. "What do you say?" she asks Mehra. "Trade you for an hour?"

Mehra makes a show of looking him over. "Sorry," she says. "Not really my type."

"What about that one?" another Zamonian says, pointing to an older man, kneeling on the floor in the center of the room where she left him.

"Not bad," Mehra says, like she's considering it, "but I don't think so."

"Well, what are you looking for?" one of the women asks.

Mehra crosses her arms over her chest and surveys the room. "Something more like him," she says with nod in John's direction and a very obvious glance at his skirt.

It's all John can do to keep from cupping his hands over his crotch. He knows that damn skirt's not transparent, but she's looking at it like it is, and he can't keep his cock from twitching in response.

Crap. He clenches his teeth, willing his body to leave it at that. This whole situation is humiliating, not sexy, and he's not going to be turned on by being treated like a piece of meat. He's not into that. 

"You only like men who are...altered like that," one of the Zamonians is saying.

Mehra shrugs. "Sorry. Guess I'm just picky."

"That's a pretty tall order," one of the women says with a disappointed look at John, and John can't help wondering, wildly, if Mehra knows for sure that Woolsey's cut. And if she knows, whether it's from personal experience.

John clamps down on that line of thought, too. He's not going to speculate about her. Not like that. And he's sure as hell not going to think about what Woolsey's got in his pants. She's probably just playing the odds.

"C'mon, you have to get a lot of different kinds of guys in here," Mehra says. "I'm sure somebody can get me what I'm looking for." She sweeps the room with a bored look before her eyes settle pointedly on John again. "I'll make sure it's worth your while."

A different woman steps up, eyeing John speculatively. "Let's say I could find you what you want. How do I know he's worth the effort?"

"Oh, he's worth it," Mehra says. "He knows how to make a girl scream."

Eyebrows go up all around, and the skeptical woman says, "Sounds like you keep his chains too loose."

"Nah," Mehra says. "He does what I say, when and how I say it."

"He's not kneeling," the woman points out.

John's suddenly aware that he's the only man standing in the room. So apparently he's not so good at the whole "when in Rome" thing.

"That's because I didn't tell him to," Mehra says calmly. "John, knees."

Maybe it's the way she's looking at him. Or maybe it's just the seriousness of their mission. All he knows is that he doesn't have to think. In a moment he's on his knees at her feet without so much as a sarcastic roll of his eyes.

"See what I mean?" she says.

John can't help looking up at her. He almost expects to see her laughing at him, but the look on her face is more complicated. They're in this together, John thinks. They have to trust each other.

Her hand touches his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. It feels possessive. Almost like she's not playacting anymore, even though John knows she is.

"Trust me," Mehra says. "He's worth anything you could trade for him."

The skeptical woman clears her throat. "Well, I can't say I wouldn't like to find out for myself. Come back tomorrow night. I'll see what I can find for you."

"Thanks," Mehra says, her fingers tightening in John's hair. It pulls, but he doesn't make a sound. "C'mon, John. Time to go."

For a moment he wonders if she wants him to crawl after her, but her fingers tug again and he realizes she's pulling him up. He climbs to his feet and follows her out of the room, ignoring the buzz of chatter that picks up as they get closer to the door. It's not like he wasn't expecting to be the center of attention, but his ears are still warm when they make it back up the stairs and through the long corridor to the street.

The street is empty, but John doesn't say anything until they're well away from the club.

"That's a pretty unorthodox search strategy, Sergeant," he says finally, when he's sure they won't be overheard. It feels good to be acting as her superior officer again. If he doesn't think too hard, he can imagine everything is perfectly normal and he didn't just spend half an hour playing the part of a sex slave.

Mehra shrugs. "Seemed like a good way to separate the wheat from the chaff."

"As long as you're sure what you're looking for is wheat," John can't help saying, and damn it, there he goes speculating about Woolsey's junk, again.

Mehra's voice sounds amused. "Yeah, no question there. Trust me on this one."

Damn it, that wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Don't tell me how you know that," John says, "'cause I really don't want to know."

Mehra snorts. "Ladies' Poker Night," she volunteers. "You'd be amazed what comes up after the second round of beers."

John can't help a surprised laugh. "Don't they swear you to silence for stuff like that?"

Her voice still sounds amused. "Nah," she says, just as they near the steps of the inn. "It's only against the rules if I tell you what we say about you."

He walked into that one, he thinks as he opens the door for her. And from the look on her face, she's laughing at him all the way up the stairs.

***

The debrief with Teldy and Porter is quick and relatively painless. John doesn't go into details, and fortunately Mehra doesn't, either, so he's spared a discussion of his dick. It's still early evening, Atlantis time, but John's learned through years of gate lag that the best strategy is to get on local time as soon as possible, so he and Mehra go back to their room.

There are two blankets on the bed, so John goes ahead and strips one off, taking the closest pillow while he's at it. The floor's wood, so he's not going to be too cold. Anyway, he's slept in less comfortable spots plenty of times.

"Whoa," Mehra says, her brows compressed in confusion. "What do you think you're doing?"

John lifts a shoulder at her. "Best way to get on local time is to get to bed."

"That's not a bed," Mehra says, nodding at the floor where John's spreading the blanket. "Look, I know this thing's kind of creepy, but it's big enough for both of us, and it's not like I'm going to jump you in the middle of the night. Nothing personal, but you're really not my type."

Somehow that's not as reassuring as it's apparently supposed to be. And why the hell isn't she worried about being _his_ type? Well, fine, she has nothing to worry about. She's his soldier; there's no way he'd dream of coming on to her, even if he did find her attractive. Which he doesn't, because he's not thinking about that kind of thing. He should be glad she knows that, not disconcerted.

"Okay," John says, picking up the blanket. "But you better not snore."

"You can whack me with a pillow if I do," Mehra says, and John can't help a grin in response. She may not be his first choice of pretend slave-owner, but she's a good soldier. And it's entirely possible she just came out to him. 

Well, he doesn't really know that, John reminds himself as he sits on the edge of the bed to take off his boots. It's not like she said it, and obviously it's not the only possible reason why he wouldn't be her type. He's a little old for her, after all, and maybe she prefers blonds. 

Or guys who are uncut.

His damn cock twitches at the thought, for absolutely no reason. She didn't see under his skirt. She wouldn't have looked even if she'd been standing in the right place. She's not interested in him. But damn it, she was there and she saw it happen and his ears go warm, just thinking about it.

John's pulling down his socks when he hears a soft, "Damn," and a moment later Mehra's crouched at his feet, a hand on the cuff around John's left ankle. For the first time, John realizes the shackles have worn his skin raw.

"It's fine," he says, pulling his leg away from her. 

"No, it's not," she says with a scowl, and then she's digging in her pack for her first aid kit and pulling out an antiseptic wipe.

"Ow," John says, because it stings. 

"Don't be a baby," she says. "Hold still." And somehow he finds himself letting her put a dressing on the sores even though he's perfectly capable of doing it himself. 

"Thanks," he says when she's done, but she's busy rifling in her pack and doesn't look up. 

A moment later she straightens, a pair of athletic socks in one hand and a pocket knife in the other. "Hang on," she says. "Not done with you yet."

John frowns, because he's fine, and really, she's the last person he'd expect to fuss over him. "I'm good, Sergeant."

"No, you're not," she says, using the knife to cut the foot off first one of the socks and then the other. "Unless you want to risk gangrene."

"Really don't think it's going to come to that," John says, but he lets her pull the footless socks over his feet and up under the shackles. They actually do help cushion his skin from the metal. "Done now?" John asks, and yeah, it's a little sarcastic.

"For now," Mehra says. "Can't have you being a slowing us down out there."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," John says, and this time the sarcasm's so thick you could cut it with a pocket knife.

But Mehra just gives him an assessing look. "We better go together to brush our teeth. Don't want anyone taking advantage of you in the hall."

John makes a face at her but grabs his kit and follows her to the bathroom. In truth, they're better off together. After all, she might be the one who needs backup.

They take turns in the tiny bathroom -- which thankfully has indoor plumbing -- and make it back to their room unmolested. Which means there's nothing more to do but get in bed. John sits down and swings his feet up, resigned to sleeping in the damn skirt. At least Mehra's socks have made the shackles a little less uncomfortable.

Mehra gets ready for bed efficiently. She strips out of her boots and socks and takes off her vest and uniform shirt as well, but leaves her t-shirt and pants on, to John's relief. Then she takes down her hair and plaits it into a neat braid.

"Scoot over," she says when she's done, and John frowns up at her. He instinctively took the side closest to the door. It's what he does.

"There's plenty of room over there," John says, indicating the stretch of bed next to him. He's lying right next to the edge.

"Don't be a jerk," Mehra says. "You don't have anything to prove."

John rolls his eyes, because it's really not about that. "Look," he says, "I don't trust these people. If someone comes through that door--"

"If someone comes through that door, I don't want to get caught in your chain when I climb over you," she interrupts. "Scoot over."

So maybe it's the fact that he spent the whole damn day pretending to be a slave, but he's not really up for negotiating right now. "If it comes to that, I'll break the chain," he says. "And it will be your own damn fault if it's not filed down enough, Sergeant."

He uses her rank deliberately, and she scowls at him, but apparently he gets his point across, because she doesn't say a word, just comes around to the other side of the bed and leans to blow out the light. "Goodnight, sir," she says, and if her tone isn't exactly respectful, well, he's not going to call her on it.

***

He wakes feeling warm and surprisingly well-rested. He doesn't usually sleep well offworld, but apparently walking around in shackles for half a day is enough to make him crash.

He's the only one in the bed, and he sits up to find Mehra by the window, cleaning her weapon. She's fully dressed with her hair pinned up again, so apparently she's been awake for a while.

"Guess you're still with us, after all," she says.

John makes a face, but when he checks his watch, it's not yet seven, local time. "Did I snore?" he can't help asking.

She lifts a shoulder and starts putting her gun back together. "Only about half the night."

That has to be an exaggeration, because she doesn't have dark rings under her eyes. "Sorry," he says anyway. "You could have woken me."

"Nah," she says, sliding her weapon back into its holster, "you need your beauty rest." 

He scowls at her but she just smiles. "If you're good, I'll go get us some breakfast. Teldy and Porter are next door if you need them."

He hates this, hates being dependent and unable to move around freely. But he just nods. "I'll be fine."

He puts his boots on and heads for the bathroom to clean up while she's gone. There's no shower, but he has a washcloth and soap, and he makes good use of them before shaving and running his damp fingers through his hair. It's not that he actually cares about what he looks like for these people, but he's pretty sure Mehra will make a crack about it if he's not at least presentable.

He's heading back to the room when he hears a door open behind him.

"Your woman really shouldn't let you out alone," a voice says.

John turns, his chain rattling at his ankles. It's a Zamonian he's never seen before, stocky but muscular, looking too interested in him for her own good.

"Maybe she knows I can take care of myself," John says.

The woman comes closer, looking John up and down. "Or maybe she doesn't know a good thing when she has it. You could do so much better." 

"Look," John says, because he needs to nip this in the bud, "I'm not really in the market for a new, ah, owner."

He feels a touch on his leg and looks down to see her hand sliding up under his skirt. "That's because you don't know what you're missing. I could make you forget all about her."

John puts a hand up to hold her off as he pulls away. He really doesn't want to fight her, but he will if he has to. He has his back to a wall, and in quarters this close, he doesn't figure his chain will be that much of a hindrance. "Yeah, I don't think so."

"That's okay," she says, "because you really don't have a choice." 

John feels a sudden pressure against his stomach and looks down to see the blade of a knife against his t-shirt just under his sternum. Crap. So much for avoiding a confrontation.

"Well, that's a matter of opinion," he says. He aims a quick chop at her wrist, and all the sparring with Ronon and Teyla pays off, because the weapon goes flying with a satisfying clatter. But he's a split second late to block her return blow, and the back of his head hits the wall hard enough to make his teeth clack.

So maybe he's a little dazed from the knock on the head, but he doesn't notice the hand under his skirt again until she touches his inner thigh.

"Get your hands off him," he hears, and then he sees the blade of her own knife at her throat and Dusty Mehra's bright, fierce grimace over her shoulder. 

It's not that he needs the rescue. He's only getting started. But he's not above a little gratitude. Mehra has her other arm wrapped around the Zamonian's shoulder and her knife hand looks like it means business.

"You really shouldn't leave him to wander around on his own," the woman says, pulling her hand out and letting John's skirt fall back down. "Other people might get ideas."

"I'd keep those ideas to yourself." Mehra says. "Unless you really want to go through me, which, for the record, I don't recommend."

"Too bad," she says. "It's been a while since I've had a natural."

John's pretty sure he doesn't want to ask what that is. 

"Get the hell out of here," Mehra says, releasing the Zamonian and giving her a shove. "And don't even think of touching him again."

The woman makes a face but turns and walks away, muttering something that sounds like "foreigners" under her breath.

"C'mon," Mehra says, and she looks suddenly tired as she bends to pick up a tray off the floor. Breakfast, John surmises. "Let's get back to our room."

"Works for me," John says, but before he can go anywhere, Teldy and Porter's door opens.

"Trouble?" Teldy asks, looking straight at John for once.

"Nothing we can't handle," John says.

But Mehra's frowning. "These people give me the creeps."

Teldy nods, and John can't exactly disagree, either.

"How 'bout we take this out of the hallway?" he says, and Teldy steps to the side to usher them into her room.

"What just happened out there, Sergeant?" Teldy asks when the door is closed. She's well within her rights to be asking her own teammate for a report, but it bothers John more than he likes.

"Nothing important," he says. "We had it under control."

"The Colonel had a little run-in with a local," Mehra adds. "Guess she just couldn't keep her hands to herself."

Teldy frowns. "That's two incidents in two days," she says, eyeing the butterfly bandage on Mehra's cheek. "I don't like it."

"I don't like it, either," John says, "but we have a mission to complete."

Mehra doesn't say anything, but she's frowning as she uncovers the breakfast tray. There's only one plate, but it's piled high with what looks like ham and biscuits, so John helps himself.

"Right," Teldy says, "about that. Porter has an idea for trying to locate the men."

"We can use the life signs detector to map the whole town," Porter says. "All we need to do is patch the data through to a mapping program on my tablet and then look for any unusual patterns of life signs."

John frowns and snags another biscuit. "But you can't differentiate between men and women with that thing."

"That's true," Porter says. "But if they're holding the men in cells, they should show up as clusters on the scan."

"What if they're just chained to their beds?" John asks, not academically.

Porter shrugs. "Then we map it several times and see which life signs don't move."

It's not a great plan, but it's better than nothing. "So you need me to make the detector work," he says.

"Oh, no," Porter says. "We've modified it so that it can be used by anyone. No gene required."

"Great," John says, and really, he's not disappointed that he doesn't have to do the tedious data collection. "So we split up again, you two together and me with Mehra."

Mehra scowls down at the sandwich she's made from two biscuits and a slice of ham. "Really not sure I want to take you out on the street in the daytime again," she says. "These people have one thing on their minds."

"We can handle it," John says.

"Never said we couldn't," Mehra says, but she still looks unhappy.

***

As it turns out, their morning out on the streets is relatively uneventful. Mehra gives the evil eye to any woman that so much as looks at John, and she spends most of the time with her newly acquired Zamonian knife unsheathed in her hand. 

They try the house with the red curtain, but the door is locked and no one answers their knock. They wander the perimeter of the town, looking for other similar establishments, but neither of them reads the local script and there's nothing obvious. Mehra finally decides to question a local, but the directions she gets lead them back to the first swap house they tried.

"C'mon," Mehra says, grabbing John completely unnecessarily by the arm. "Let's head back to the inn."

John's pretty sure they haven't exhausted their options, but he doesn't want to cause another incident and there are Zamonians out on the street, watching them, so he grits his teeth and follows her back, only to find Teldy and Porter returning as well.

It's lunchtime and the inn's common room is crowded, so John has to keep up the act as they head back to the stairs. But he's really not prepared to be goosed by an unseen hand.

He can't help jumping and turning around, but there are three women behind him and they're all laughing.

"Hey," Mehra says, at John's side in an instant with her knife blade up. "Keep your damn hands to yourself."

"You going to make us?" one of the Zamonians says.

"Don't tempt me," Mehra says, but she apparently decides it's not worth a fight, because she closes her hand on John's arm. "Upstairs," she says.

John can't help giving them a glare as he follows Teldy and Porter to the stairwell with Mehra close on his heels. God damn it, he needs to get off this planet.

***

By mutual agreement, he stays with Porter for the afternoon and helps with her analysis. It's boring as hell but his ass doesn't get any new bruises and he's rewarded by being the first person to see her preliminary analysis.

"So," he says, examining the three dimensional map her program has created with each life sign highlighted, "looks like 'chained to the beds' is the winner."

Porter presses her lips together. "Well, we don't know that for sure," she says. "Maybe they're kept outside the city. Or maybe they simply don't have very many men. We haven't seen many children, either."

"Good point," John says, staring at the data. "Well, I guess it's up to me and the Sarge."

***

They set out immediately after dinner, following the circle of Mehra's flashlight down the streets toward the house with the red curtain. After an afternoon of inaction, John feels ready for anything. Even spending a few hours pretending to be a sex slave doesn't sound so bad. At least it's doing something.

The proprietor lets them in with only a cursory glance, and they head down the stairs to the communal room. It's less crowded tonight, but two women they've never seen before head for them as soon as they're through the door.

"So you're the foreigner," one of them says to Mehra. "Heard you were looking for something special."

"That's right," Mehra says. "'Fraid I'm kinda picky."

"I might have what you're looking for," the Zamonian says, looking John up and down. "Of course, it depends what I get in trade."

Mehra puts a hand on John's shoulder, and tonight he has the good sense to go down to his knees. Her hand combs through his hair, tipping his chin back, and he looks up at her, trying to look sexy. It's not easy to do on his knees, but then, he has a feeling these women aren't looking for the kind of thing Earth women look for in a guy.

Most Earth women, anyway.

"Not bad," the Zamonian says. "But can he actually perform, or is he just a pretty face?"

Mehra wrinkles her nose. "Trust me, he can do things you've never even dreamed of."

The Zamonian smiles and reaches out to take hold of John's chin. It's all he can do to keep from pulling away. "Give me a little taste of his supposed talents, and we could have a deal."

For a moment John thinks Mehra's going to agree to it, and he's going to have to seduce these women in front of her. But Mehra tangles a possessive hand in his hair. "Sorry," she says, not sounding very sincere. "I don't give out free samples."

The Zamonian drops her hand, looking affronted. "How do I know you're not lying about his skills? After the way you paraded him around town this morning, I'm about ready to believe he's all show and no substance." 

Mehra bristles. "How do I know you're not lying about having what I'm looking for in trade? Prove to me you've got the goods, and maybe I'll let you have a little taste of him."

But the Zamonian won't take the bait. "Oh, I've got what you want," she says. "But I'm starting to think you've got something to hide."

The second Zamonian nods. "If you won't share, at least show us what he can do. Nobody's going to trade for a man they haven't even seen in action."

John can feel the tension in Mehra's hand where it's still caught in his hair. She doesn't want to make the call, and he gets that, just as he knows this is their only current lead. And he's done worse things on missions. He slowly bows his head under her hand, hoping she'll read it for a signal.

"Fine," Mehra says. "You want a show? I can give you a show. But keep your damn hands off him until I say you have something worth trading for." And she tugs on John's hair.

So it's game time. John shifts his feet under him and rises. He gets what he just traded for, just as he knows it's the safer option. That doesn't mean it's going to be easier. Because, sure, letting one of the Zamonians have her wicked way with him is a colossally bad idea, but making out with Mehra is going to be really fucking awkward at best. At worst...

No, he's not going there. They're team members for the time being, backing each other up. It's nothing more than that.

"John," she says, "show me what you're worth."

He catches her eye and gives her half a wink, willing her to take this with her usual devil-may-care attitude. And then he leans in and brushes his lips against the side of her neck.

She's wearing a uniform shirt but no tac vest, and her shirt's open enough that he can work his way lower and then linger in the hollow of her throat. He feels and hears her breath catch, and she's good, because it's nice and subtle. Real enough to believe. John bends his knees and moves lower, kissing the placket of her shirt and looking up at her through his lashes.

She takes another quick breath and runs her fingers through his hair, pressing just a little. _Down_ it means. With a possible addendum of _unless you have a better plan._

John doesn't, so he drops to his knees. His mouth is now just about level with her crotch, but there's no way he's going there, not if he doesn't have to. He bends his neck instead and rubs his face against her thigh. He feels the fabric catch against his cheek and he realizes he probably should have shaved again. 

At least she's still dressed, and planning to stay that way.

He moves even lower, kissing her knees through her uniform pants and then bending down to touch his mouth to the inside of her boot. He doesn't have a shoe fetish and if he did, it probably wouldn't include combat boots, but he can fake it. He nuzzles her ankle through the thick leather and she lets out a well-timed gasp.

"That's right," she says, and she manages to make it sound a little breathless, "just like that, John."

John suppresses a smile against her boot. It helps to have a partner in crime, and she's damn good. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was totally into this.

Into him.

He moves on to the other boot, giving it the same treatment, and she lets out something that sounds like a moan. And then her feet shift and he hears one of the Zamonians talking and he must have been concentrating pretty hard on what he was doing because it takes him a moment to realize Mehra's saying, "Yeah, okay," and then she has her hand in his hair again.

He gets to his feet, wondering if the demonstration is over that easily, but no. One of the Zamonians is gesturing toward something that looks like a settee. _Bad idea_ , John thinks, but he can't catch Mehra's eye, and she's already headed for it, tugging him after her with a hand on his arm.

He can't defy her. He's supposed to be her property. And at least it's still in the public room. He glances around quickly, but no one else is engaged in anything resembling a sex act. _It's not an orgy,_ he tells himself. _Just a teaser._

Mehra sprawls on the settee like she owns it, no hesitancy or sign of weakness, and it occurs to John that she's actually the right one for this role. He can't imagine Porter ordering him around or acting like she deserves this, and even Teldy would be too stiff, too by-the-book. Mehra has no problem acting like he's her property, and in here that's actually an advantage.

 

 

'''''''''''''''''''''' And that's it, as far as it goes ''''''''''''''''''''''''

 

 

Random extra snippets and notes (included for laughs, for anyone who has made it this far). Please note that the notes were brainstorming, not an outline, and if I'd finished the story it might or might not have continued along these lines.

 

 

She's a noncommissioned officer. She's under his command. She's so far out of the range of possibility that he shouldn't even have to remind himself of that, and damn it, she's not his type and this isn't his thing and it's obviously just the fact that this whole situation is oversexualized.

 

deterrence or obliteration.

 

"That was good work, Sergeant," he says. He owes her that much, and she did get them a lead.

"Fucking weird, though," she says, then apparently realizes who she's talking to. "Sorry, sir. These people just creep me out."

"Yeah," he says, with a certain measure of relief. It's good to know that was really all an act out there. 

 

You gotta be in on the action, huh? I get that.

 

 

Woolsey was stolen on a rare diplomatic mission when a Zamonian took a fancy to him (?). They think he can help them with the nuke (which they don't know how to detonate or deliver?), and he's been successfully putting them off. Maybe they're making rockets. Or dirigibles.

Leader stole nuke from Genii and wants to use it against a male-dominated society that is threatening them.

In the end Porter, John, & Mehra disable the nuke (maybe Mehra's the one who knows how? fits in with her killing machine personality), but the Zamonians use it for deterrence. Zamonians don't reform, tho.

 

'''''''''''''''''''''''''

 

Sorry, Dusty, I loved you and you deserved better than this. I wish I'd managed to finish. ~Trophic, 1-22-2013


End file.
